


Practice

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: Crushes, F/M, Humor, Jealousy, Male-Female Friendship, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Partners in Crime, Partners to Lovers, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: He has thrown money at a problem that does not exist. And now he is throwing time at it, apparently. And maybe dignity, because he doesn’t know at all whether he threw his money at the right things or if he should redirect his time to someplace else, and this is all stupid, because this is a problem that doesn’t exist.
Relationships: Kate Beckett & Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Tom Demming
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set after Den of Thieves (2 x 21)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has thrown money at a problem that does not exist. And now he is throwing time at it, apparently. And maybe dignity, because he doesn’t know at all whether he threw his money at the right things or if he should redirect his time to someplace else, and this is all stupid, because this is a problem that doesn’t exist.

He has thrown money at a problem that does not exist. And now he is throwing time at it, apparently. And maybe dignity, because he doesn’t know _at all_ whether he threw his money at the right things or if he should redirect his time to someplace else, and this is all _stupid_ , because this is a problem that doesn’t exist.

Detective Schlemming is not—will not _be_ —a character in _Naked Heat._ And even if he _were_ going to be one (which he is not), he’d be a two-dimensional, throw-away nonentity, and he certainly doesn’t need to do character research to pull _that_ off. 

And yet, here he is. Or here he is about to be as soon as he works up the nerve to stop circling the block, expensive, unnecessary infrastructure for utterly unnecessary character research in tow, and actually head in to do what he came to do. And that’s exactly what he _plans_ to do. After one more circuit of the block. 

He manages it after that last go-around. He reaches out, snags the door handle, and launches himself inside. It’s his first faux pas. The door closes behind him and a soft, aromatic, absolutely _sedate_ atmosphere presses in on him. This is not a place one launches oneself into. 

“Namaste.” The woman behind the long curve of the pale wood desk manages to look serene and mildly reproachful at the same time. “Are you looking to begin your practice?” 

Her _begin_ doesn’t get past him. He takes in her toned arms—her toned everything—courtesy of the snug fit of the sleeveless top that ends an inch or two above the high waist of her leggings. He looks down at his slouchy shorts, which were (a) not cheap, and (b) definitely advertised as men’s yoga shorts, and seriously considers throwing his recently acquired yoga mat—fancy bag and all—as a distraction and making good his escape. But, just then, Serenity McReproachful Leggings cocks an eyebrow and it trips his obstinacy trigger. 

“Yes.” He strides up the desk, pretending as though he hasn’t just spoken about ten times louder than is clearly appropriate, and pretending even harder that his voice has not somehow managed to crack in the utterance of a single syllable. “I believe there’s a Jivamukti Spiritual Warrior class beginning shortly?” 

“We are a Jivamukti studio.” She smiles. Serenely of course. “All our classes follow The Way. But yes, the Spiritual Warrior is about to begin.” 

They stand there, staring at one another long enough that he becomes uncomfortable. She does not. It takes him far too long to realize that yet more money will need to change hands before he can _begin_ his practice. He produces a credit card. She produces a dizzying array of options for following The Way. 

“Single classes are available.” Without altering her tone at all, she manages to convey that such a choice will definitely go down on his permanent record. “But, of course, we encourage a commitment to the journey with the unlimited access—” 

“That.” There’s a sudden influx of women through the doors. They do not launch themselves. They flow through the space, nodding at one another, speaking little and in low voices. They are obviously on their way to becoming Spiritual Warriors, and he feels an urgent, nonsensical need to join them—to inhabit the mind and heart of Detective Schlemming, who definitely takes yoga classes just to pick up girls. “Unlimited access. I’ll take that.” 

Her Serene, Reproachful, Well-Toned Highness—who definitely works on commission, judging from the smile-like thing that breaks through—snatches his credit card and works quickly enough that he’s pretty sure she’s afraid he’ll change his mind. As he catches sight of the heart-stopping total on the receipt, he doesn’t blame her. He rushes through more paperwork than the NYPD required to affirm that Beckett was legally allowed to shoot him.

He shoulders his yoga mat and races—sedately races—after the straggling few who are still making their way into the main room. The bold russet color of the interior walls and support posts surprises him. He’d expected more pale wood and soothing green tones that managed to be calming and menacing at the same time. 

The space is already crowded. He’s annoyed with himself for his stalling. He now can’t decide if Schlemming would set up shop at the rear of the room, the better to creep on you, my dear, or if he’d plant himself dead center for maximum attention to his sensitive-man moves. 

More importantly, in his non-creeping, dying-inside persona, he’s utterly at sea when it comes to protocol. He is literally the only guy there, and though he would love to believe that the sidelong looks he’s getting are appreciative, his capacity for self-delusion can only take him so far. 

He strikes out for a corner near the back of the room in the end. He watches carefully as the women around him lay out their mats and tries to recreate the spacing between his own and the next one over as exactly as he can. 

He’s having trouble, though. His brand-damned-new mat keeps rolling up at the corners, possibly because it _is_ brand-damned-new. He was an idiot not to do a trial run with it. Now, when he manages to stomp on one hard enough to make it lie down, the move dislodges another. And then one whole long side has developed a Quasimodo-worthy hump, and his stomping is obviously getting in the way of everyone else’s mental and physical preparation for their journey into Spiritual Warrior-dom. 

The sidelong looks are decidedly hostile now, except for a few pitying ones. The pity is, paradoxically, the worst of it for him—Detective Schlemming deserves no pity. He considers, for the second time, creating a distraction and hitting the nearest exit, but he’s packed in now. Yoga mats stretch out like an endless sea between him and the suffocating tranquility of the lobby. 

He twists in place, hoping against hope that the russet wall to his right has somehow sprouted an escape hatch. The corner of the mat farthest from him peels up like a tongue lolling at him in a childish taunt. He lunges forward to stomp It down, but he’s missed the mat and occupant that materialized in front of him when his back was turned. His lunge carries him directly into the woman just as she folds one leg to catch the top of her foot in a quadriceps stretch. 

She doesn’t go down. Miraculously, he catches her elbow and neither of them goes down. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, low and quick as he reaches for her other elbow to set her properly on her feet. “I’m new. It’s new. I’m _so_ sorry.”

The woman whips around to face him, tugging pointedly free of his grasp. Her eyes go wide as as recognition hits. 

“Castle,” she hisses. “What in the _hell_ are you doing here?” 

His jaw works. His brain tries to formulate an answer, but all he can come up with is a name. “Lanie.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is confined to a name for the duration. The hushed E sound at the end of it is still dying away when all eyes except, regrettably, Lanie’s swivel toward the front of the room. Lanie’s eyes linger on him just long enough to convey the very important message If you try to run, I will murder you. I will dismember you. I will collaborate with Beckett to mess with the evidence and construct and solve a murder mystery so wild that we will both become wildly famous, all while making sure that your disappearance slips from the pathetic few headlines it ever appeared in within twenty-four hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Still ridiculous. Set around the time of Den of Thieves (2 x 21)

He is confined to a name for the duration. The hushed _E_ sound at the end of it is still dying away when all eyes except, regrettably, Lanie’s swivel toward the front of the room. Lanie’s eyes linger on him just long enough to convey the very important message _If you try to run, I will murder you. I will dismember you. I will collaborate with Beckett to mess with the evidence and construct and solve a murder mystery so wild that we will both become wildly famous, all while making sure that_ your _disappearance slips from the pathetic few headlines it ever appeared in within twenty-four hours._

_Then_ Lanie’s eyes swivel front. It seems prudent for his to follow, though what they land on when they do is not heartening to say the least. 

A man has taken up his obviously accustomed spot, front and center. He unrolls his mat with one smooth motion and regards his sea of soon-to-be Warriors with a gaze that sweeps right, left, and back again.

The women stand ready, each centered at the foot of her own mat. Castle scurries to take up a similar position, tripping as he goes, largely because he’s trying to get a look at this guy. It’s not easy. There’s no dais or anything, so he has to lean from one side to the other and go up on tiptoe to see much more than decidedly _not_ slouchy yoga shorts, a head full of flowing grey hair, and arms that are not at all bulky, yet looks like they’ve been twisted together out of the steel cables that hold up the Brooklyn Bridge. 

He senses Lanie sensing _him_ as he fidgets around. He notes a certain familiar drop to one shoulder that universally precedes her delivery of some devastating blow, _nearly_ universally at his expense. He manages, in the fraction of an instant the fates allow him, to still himself and school his posture so that when her chin swivels to fix him with an over-the-shoulder glare, she finds him very much the picture of someone ready to _begin_ his journey. 

He sees the flash of a quick gesture from the man at the front, and the room fills with a high, whining note—a tone that’s well outside any musical scale his own ear is used to. He’s still shaking his head against the onslaught when he realizes that everyone, to a woman, has swept her arms overhead and is following her fingertips backward until something like fifty-five pairs of upside down eyes are turned on him in the back corner that is clearly going to provide no cover. 

One pair out of the fifty-five sends further instructions that require his immediate attention. _Get moving. Now. Or I will murder you. I will dismember you, etc., etc._

So he does his best. His shoulders protest immediately at the jerky swing of his arms. His spine weighs in, not to be out done, as he tries to bend backwards and can hardly fix his eyes on the ceiling, let alone the wall behind him, as instructed. 

His failure at this first and most basic of poses is a preview of things to come. The music that seems to guide every other body in the room is utterly disorienting to him. He is behind, he is ahead, he is never, ever on the beat. 

The _asanas_ —poses, as he figures out very late in the game and then feels like the most basic of idiots—come fast and furious. in the three or four seconds over the next hour when he is not actually, actively, right this moment _dying,_ he happily concludes that Detective Schlemming’s failure here—his humiliation—would be total. 

The instruction, to him, is absolutely minimal, but then again it’s clear that these women, Lanie included, are hard-core regulars. They’re serious about the practice. When the instructor commences roaming through the field of bodies about a third of the way through the class, they are fiercely proud when he praises their form, immensely gratified when he offers a correction. 

When the man arrives alongside _his_ mat—when he models the pose and offers a few adjustments, then a crisp nod of encouragement, Castle gets it. He feels like he’s just run the New York Marathon in under three hours while finishing _Naked Heat._ He never, ever under pain of death, dismemberment and fading into absolute anonymity wants to do this again, but he gets the appeal. He will never apologize to the entirely fictional, obviously nonexistent Detective Schlemming for anything, but he might have to send yoga a sheepish card. 

“Well?” 

Lanie looms over him as his eyes fly open. He may have fallen asleep and/or briefly shuffled off this mortal coil during his final savasana. Her question booms around the room, suggesting it’s empty or close to it. His death or nap may have been not-so-brief. 

“Help,” he says simply, which wins him a kick that might actually be a fairly gentle prod with her bare foot. “Roll on to your belly,” she coaches. “Work your way up to hands and knees. Take it slow.” 

He makes it to his feet, and she takes pity on him. She stoops to roll up his mat and stuff it in his fancy bag. He watches gratefully. Pity is good now. Detective Schlemming might not deserve it, but he certainly does.

“What—what now?” He hangs his head as she hands the bag to him. Spiritual Warrior, he knows without a doubt, is just Phase 1 of his punishment. 

“Now,” she says as she sizes him up. “Drinks.” 

“Drinks?” He feels the blood drain from his face and keep on draining until all of it is somewhere around his ankles. He sways a little. 

“Drink for me.” She catches his elbow. “Water for you. And maybe some crackers. You’re buying.” 

He tries to nod, but his neck isn’t working. He tries to lift his hand and only succeeds in releasing a wave of stench from his armpit. “I’m gross.” 

“Yeah you are,” she shoots back, and she’s not talking about the stench. He hangs his head again, non-working neck and all, and she relents a little. “Rooftop bar,” she lifts her chin. “Yoga and drinks. Everybody’s gross. It’s a thing.” 

“Lead the way.” 

* * *

The sun is bright and cruel. The gentle spring breeze is like knives scraping his skin, and his hair hurts—his body hair _hurts_. But it’s a pretty nice rooftop bar, at least during the three-minute grace period Lanie affords him while they’re ordering drinks—a Bloody Mary for her, water, the tiniest glass of juice possible, and bread service for him. 

“So,” Lanie begins the minute the waitress is even arguably out of earshot. “You know your girl is not going to be working out in a place like this, right?” 

“My—“ he sputters. The slow-whirring gears of his mind work on the terrible substance of her words. “My _girl?”_

“Don’t play with me Castle.” She casually unrolls the thick cloth napkin and lets fork and knife clatter on to the metal cafe table for emphasis. “I know this is about Beckett. So, what? I know you can just be dropping in to every yoga studio in Manhattan. You better not be staking out her place.” 

“Her _place!”_ He silent movie gasps. “Staking out! No! _No!”_

The drinks arrive at that precise moment, as though Lanie has willed it. She keeps her eyes locked on him as he struggles to keep silent until they’re clear of the waitress, who suddenly wants to list every single possible thing they might want her to bring them. 

“I am not staking anything—any _one—_ out,” he hisses as soon as it’s safe. Lanie slides the tall, stemmed glass toward herself and takes a sip epic enough to signal that she fully intends to wait him out. He caves. “It’s . . . it was supposed to be research.” 

He’s mumbling by the end, but that’s not what has Lanie shooting him a puzzled frown. “Research. For Rook?” 

He shakes his head. He sips at the juice, but it burns his tongue. His tongue hurts, too, he notes miserably. He must have bit it a hundred times while trying to haul his stupid body from one pose to another. 

“Another Detective.” He pokes unenthusiastically at the artisanal butter that comes with brown, heavy-looking bread that is almost certainly harboring nasty, fugitive raisins. He tears off a piece anyway and comes across a raisin immediately upon popping it into his mouth. “A creep.”

“Demming,” Lanie says quietly. Pityingly, and that’s not so good at the moment. 

“So _you_ think he’s a creep, too?” He tries for a grin, tries to make a joke of it, but Lanie’s not laughing.

“Beckett doesn’t.” She shakes her head in a mixture of frustration, amusement, and yet more pity. “You like her.” 

He thinks about denying. Denial rises swiftly to the end of his bitten, juice-abused tongue, but there’s no point. It’s Lanie, and there’s no point. 

“I like her,” he says, eyes on the city stretching out below them. 

“Damn, Castle.” Lanie takes another pull on her Bloody Mary. “Think you should’ve said something about that, like, _a year_ ago?” 

He thinks about denying that, too. Or pushing back at least, saying he didn’t even know until just now—until Demming. But there’s no point in that, either. “Yeah.” He sighs. He takes a sip of water. “Probably. Probably should’ve.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lanie ships. This is dumb. That is all. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is utterly ridiculous, and I . . .kind of don’t know what happens next. But this should be a two-shot. Probably. Probably. (It did, indeed, turn out to be a two-shot.)


End file.
